In the Land of the Everliving

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  ‘Nothing to say now?’ Sceana lifted her head in defiant challenge, and Conor understood that in the contest for the queen’s affections—or even her rational mind—he had lost. He could but quit the field with whatever dignity he still possessed.

  Finally, he mastered his voice enough to say, ‘I will not remain in the same ráth where Lord Vainche is welcome. I will gather my belongings and go. I expect Fergal and Donal will go with me.’

  ‘That is your decision,’ replied the queen, uncertainty edging into her tone for the first time.

  Conor squared his shoulders and gave her a curt bow, then turned on his heel and strode from the room. Once outside, he marched across the yard to the hall through the midst of the Bréifne refugees. From the corner of his eye, he saw Vainche and his red-haired kinsman, and the brute Gioll watching him, their heads together and, in that instant, understood that his eviction from the ráth had been their plan from the beginning. The knowledge made his gut squirm with indignation and his birthmark throb, but he did not allow them the satisfaction of seeing him weep or rage against his fate.

  One day, he thought, your fortunes will be in my hands and then we will see who weeps and rages. We will see that and all Eirlandia will bear witness.…

  Stopping briefly at the hall, he enquired where Fergal and Donal could be found, and was told that if he hurried he might still find them in the horse yard behind the stables where they were preparing to ride with the hunters. Picking up his cloak and sparán, and the kidskin bag containing his faéry clothes, he removed his weapons from the wall and stormed off to the horse yard where he told one of the grooms to prepare Búrach to travel. He hurried to the stable where Fergal and Donal were just then leading their horses into the enclosure. Galart was with them; the three were taking their mounts for an exercise run, but they had their spears with them in case they came across any game.

  ‘Conor! Come join us,’ called Galart.

  ‘That will not be possible today,’ he replied.

  ‘You cannot be implying that your duties are so heavily taxing of your time that you cannot spare a swift ride in the hunting runs,’ said Fergal. ‘Your Búrach will not thank you for neglecting him.’

  Donal, seeing the cast of Conor’s mouth and the set of his jaw, said, ‘I think our battlechief will ride, but not to the hunt. What has happened, brother?’

  Conor did not know where to begin to explain, so he simply said, ‘Go to the hall and gather your belongings. We are leaving Aintrén.’

  Fergal glanced at Donal, who merely observed, ‘So, it has come to this.’

  ‘Come to what?’ demanded Fergal. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘Get your things,’ said Conor simply. ‘Be quick about it.’

  Casting sideways glances at one another, Donal and Fergal led their horses away. Galart, stunned, gaped in disbelief and watched them go. The groomsman brought Conor’s grey stallion just then, haltered and with a clean horsecloth, and ready to ride. Conor thanked him, replaced Pelydr in the holder under the cloth, and slid Eirian into his belt. Then, gathering up the reins, he moved on to the Warriors’ House.

  ‘What about Médon?’ asked Galart, hurrying after him. ‘You should talk to him before you go.’

  ‘Médon is riding the border with the scouts. He won’t return until tomorrow morning and I’ll not wait.’

  ‘What should I tell him?’

  ‘Tell him to guard his queen and see to her defence. With those two wolves in the sheepfold, she will be in need of a stout friend and defender.’

  ‘What about the rest of us—your warband?’ asked the young warrior.

  ‘There is to be a new battlechief here now,’ Conor told him. Raising his hands to his throat, he gently prized apart the ends of the slender silver torc, slipped it from around his neck, and handed it to the young warrior, saying, ‘Gioll will soon take up the reins of authority if he has not done so already.’ He started leading the stallion away.

  Galart stared at the torc in his hands for a moment, then called after Conor. ‘And you, my lord? Where will you go?’

  ‘I am not your lord, Galart. I think Vainche is lord here now—or very soon will be. As for me’—he raised a hand in parting—‘you need have no thought for me. A ready spear is always in demand now that the Scálda have stirred themselves to finish the destruction of Eirlandia. One way or another—whether here or somewhere else—I will do what I can to prevent that.’

  Conor paused outside the Warriors’ House to wait for Fergal and Donal to emerge, and Galart quickly rejoined him. ‘It is not right that you should be cast out like this.’

  ‘Ach, now, hear me. I am not cast out. I leave of my own accord.’ He turned and put a hand on the young warrior’s shoulder. ‘Tell Médon and the rest of the warband that I wish them well and should we ever join one another on the battle line, I will be honoured to fight alongside them once again.’

  Galart swallowed hard, but accepted Conor’s charge. After a moment, the two Darini appeared; Conor swung himself up onto Búrach’s back and bade Galart farewell. Fergal and Donal did likewise and the three rode from Aintrén without looking back.

  Rhiannon

  Even before the ship bearing our Dé Danann friends had disappeared from sight, I believe the change had begun. Though I cannot say what it was about that parting, I do know that it cast my father into a thoughtful, melancholy mood. On the morning of their departure, I stood with the king and watched the swift boat glide out across the bay; we waved our friends away and, even then, I sensed an alteration in my father’s heart. ‘Brave men,’ Gwydion said, his hand raised in farewell.

  That was all he said, but I heard in those two little words the seeds of doubt that would soon begin to sprout and grow. What is it that our bards say?

  Uncertainty, the mother of Doubt

  Doubt, the mother of Reservation

  Reservation, the mother of Misgiving

  Misgiving, the mother of Unrest

  Unrest, the mother of Conflict

  Truly, that is how it was with my father. As the autumn passed into winter, I watched as the doubt worked away in the king’s mind. Day by day, I watched him try to assuage his mounting unrest. I was not the only one to see it; my mother, the queen, observed his every mood and temper.

  ‘Your father is distracted,’ she declared one night as we walked to our bedchambers.

  ‘He does appear somewhat preoccupied,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps he misses our Dé Danann friends. He and Conor became very good friends—and Fergal and Donal as well. Indeed, I miss them, too.’

  Arianrhod was shaking her head before I finished. ‘It is more than that,’ she told me. ‘I know it.’

  ‘What is it that troubles him, do you think?’

  ‘His heart, of course. It is in conflict with his head.’

  ‘In what way, Mother?’ I asked. Though I was fairly certain I knew the reason, I wanted to hear her speak it aloud.

  ‘It is obvious, is it not? It is because he has made a decision that will not rest,’ the queen replied. ‘He is still ploughing a field already twice ploughed.’ She glanced at me. ‘Did you know that he and Conor met at length before the Dé Danann left us. There was a disagreement.’

  I knew, of course, but wanted to hear what she made of the matter. ‘I thought they parted as friends,’ I pointed out.

  ‘They did—as friends who have quarrelled.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the king about his disquiet?’

  She gave me a knowing smile. ‘This, I think, is one of those times when we must allow the fruit to ripen of its own accord, or it will not ripen at all.’

  ‘Wise words, Mother,’ I told her. Even so, I resolved then and there that, if my mother the queen would not speak to the king directly, then I would. I bided my time and chose my opportunity carefully. It was late one evening, after we had listened to one of our bards sing ‘The Treasures of Annwfyn’: a lovely song in its way, but also disturbing—at least on this particular night—for it re
lates the coming of a king who rises during an age of great upheaval to defeat a cruel oppressor and gains the treasures of the Otherworld for his people. As we left the hearth, I sensed my chance had come.

  ‘An odd tale that,’ I said. ‘I am surprised you allow it to be sung anymore.’

  ‘Why is that, my heart? It has long been a favourite of my court. Why do you call it odd?’

  ‘It is a tale that celebrates and glories in warfare, is it not?’ I replied. ‘I think it odd that a king who holds combat in such contempt should revel in a song that extolls the virtues of war.’

  Gwydion glanced at me and frowned. ‘Truly? Is that what you think? If so, you misunderstand the song entirely. It is not about the glory of war, much less extolling any virtue armed strife may possess. The tale is about the necessity of defending the life and well-being of your people against a wicked and rapacious oppressor.’

  ‘Necessity?’ I challenged. ‘Surely not, Father. Pwyll, the Righteous Prince, was never forced to take up arms. He could have simply made peace with his enemy. There was no need to fight at all—you have said as much yourself.’

  He stopped walking and stared at me. ‘When did I ever say such a thing?’

  I stopped and turned to him. ‘That is what you told Conor when he asked for your aid against the Scálda. So, then, it seems to me that our friend is just like Pwyll. Conor is trying to rise to the defence of his people against a wicked and rapacious oppressor. To do that he must take up arms and fight.’

  ‘Armed conflict is not our way anymore.’

  ‘Is it not? It was Pwyll’s way—in this song you like so much.’

  The king shook his head. ‘You are too young to remember the terrible wars we fought against the Aes-sídhe of Albion. When those wars ended, we vowed never to fight again.’

  ‘And yet you gave our Dé Danann friends charmed weapons with which to fight their hopeless battle,’ I pointed out. ‘This, dear Father, is the very thing I have been meaning to ask you—why did you give such splendid weapons to our friends if you did not intend for them to be used?’

  ‘I merely wanted to…’ he began, then gave up the effort to explain. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘You have said it there, my king. I do not understand. That is why I am asking. Of all the things you might have given them … what was in your mind to bestow a gift of weapons when you profess to oppose their use?’

  He stared at me for a long moment and, in a chastened voice, replied, ‘I see.’

  I lay a hand gently on his arm. ‘What do you see, Father?’

  ‘I see that I have been a fool.’ He sighed and looked away. ‘Such a fool.’

  Linking my arm through his, I resumed our walk down the long corridor—as if toward the decision I knew he wanted to make. ‘Only a little foolish, perhaps,’ I granted lightly. ‘But only a genuine fool persists in his folly.’

  He regarded me sharply. ‘You knew this all along, yet you said nothing.’

  ‘I know only that making peace with the Scálda—whatever that may mean—will not save Eirlandia. Conor and his people need help if any of us are to survive, and we are able to give that help.’

  Gwydion considered this a moment. ‘There are those among us who would not support such a venture. Though it pains me to say it, the Tylwyth Teg are not as strong as once we were, nor as numerous.’

  ‘But if we allied with the Aes-sídhe both those deficits would be addressed at a stroke,’ I replied. ‘Come, Father, you cannot in good conscience counsel the Dé Danann to make peace with the Scálda if you refuse to make peace with King Lenos and the Kerionid.’

  My father scoffed at the notion. ‘Do you think I haven’t tried that very thing? Lenos will not have it. Too much bad blood lies between us and the Aes-sídhe for any accord to flourish.’

  ‘You may be right,’ I granted, ‘yet it may be that since King Lenos has suffered personally at the hand of Balor Evil Eye, he might finally be willing to reconcile with you in order to vanquish a common enemy. That would have an appeal for him, I should think.’

  For the second time my father stopped walking, pulled his arm from mine, and stared at me. ‘What manner of creature have I raised that you school me like this?’

  I offered him a smile and put my arms around him. ‘Only a daughter who loves you and has your best interest at heart.’ I looked up into his handsome face. ‘Will you do it?’

  ‘I cannot promise so much.’

  ‘But you will think about what I’ve said?’

  ‘I will think about it,’ he said, ‘and I will do more. I will send to Eilean Céo to request an audience with King Lenos and his advisors—that much I can do.’ He smiled. ‘Would that suffice to make you happy?’

  ‘It is not for my happiness, Father, but for the greater good. No one in the Land of the Everliving will be safe until we rid this worlds-realm of the Scálda curse.’

  17

  ‘I have just spent a wet night on a hard rock with nothing but a scrap of dry bread to ease my hunger and only thin water to relieve my thirst,’ intoned Fergal as the three exiles sat warming themselves by their fuggy little fire and waiting for the mist and rain to clear so they could continue their journey. ‘The least you can do,’ he continued, ‘is tell me why I did this.’

  After leaving Aintrén the day before, they had headed west toward Coriondi territory, riding long and stopping for the night beside a stream at the edge of an expansive stand of white oak and ash. During the night the weather had changed; blustery wind streamed cold and wet out of the north, sharpening the desolation they all felt on waking.

  ‘What more is there to say?’ Conor poked the fitful flames with a damp twig. ‘To remain with the Brigantes would be to accept the authority of that two-headed toad, Lord Vainche, and his toad-licking Gioll.’ He snapped the twig as if disposing of a rival and tossed it into the fire. ‘You, my long-suffering brother, may be able to endure such painful humiliation, but I am made of finer stuff. I do believe it would kill me.’

  ‘This rain and the cold north wind will kill you the quicker,’ Fergal grumped.

  Donal chuckled and Fergal favoured him with a warning glance.

  ‘Aye, well, far be it from me to force anyone to come with me. You are free to return to Aintrén any time you please,’ Conor told him. ‘In fact, you should go. I think Gioll likes you. Aye, he told me he considered you a fine figure of a fella.’

  ‘Nay, nay,’ Fergal shivered at the thought and pulled his cloak more tightly around him. ‘It is too far to ride on a day like this, and we have this pleasant fire here.’

  ‘Be that as it may, we cannot stay here forever,’ Donal pointed out. ‘Perhaps we should go back to Dúnaird and see if Ardan will speak to us. With all that has happened, I am certain he would be willing to hear us out.’

  ‘Not if Liam had anything to say about it,’ Fergal replied. ‘I will not be crawling on my knees to get back what should never have been taken from me in the first place.’

  Conor looked to his friends. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘You are paying a price for my poor judgement. Do it again and I would have told Mádoc to sell his mad scheme to some other butter-brained gull. Nothing but hardship has come from it.’

  ‘Not so,’ countered Donal. ‘We have gained knowledge of the Scálda and the fact that it came at a high cost only proves how valuable it is.’

  Conor gave a mirthless chuckle at the notion, and said, ‘I doubt Aoife would agree with you—she has suffered, too.’ He gazed into the spluttering flames of their pitiful little campfire. The memory of her tear-stained face when he told her he had been exiled came before him once more and the hopelessness of that parting pierced him through and through. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and make everything right again. The utter impossibility of that happening filled him with remorse and a longing akin to grief. Were they fated to remain apart forever? He murmured to himself, ‘In her own way, she has suffered—and others as well.’<
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  At mention of Aoife, a strained silence descended upon the unhappy group. It was endured for a time, but when the tension stretched to the breaking point, Fergal blurted out, ‘Look at us here now—three men of woeful countenance, alone and friendless. What is that, eh? Cheer up! Let us go to Lord Cahir as we decided—and when we reach Dún Cruach, he will give us all welcome cup and a seat at his board. Aye, and he will also have a cracking great blaze in the hearth where we can dry our sodden carcasses.’

  ‘And will he send a welcoming party to greet us and lead us to his ráth?’ asked Donal.

  ‘A grand notion, to be sure,’ Fergal granted. ‘But I will settle for a dry corner with a cup in my hand.’ He glanced up at Donal, whose eyes were raised beyond the fire to the misty hills beyond. ‘Why do you ask such a thing, brother?’

  ‘Because we will be greeting just such a party very soon.’ Donal nodded to the empty hills.

  Both Fergal and Conor turned their gaze to where Donal indicated and at first saw nothing. Then, even as they looked, the head and shoulders of a rider appeared over the top of the hill. Another head showed itself, followed by a third and, by the time the head of the first horse became fully visible, the head and torsos of three more riders had joined the first. In all, five riders paused on the hilltop to search the broad plain and woodland below. Upon seeing the smoke from the fire, they resumed their ride, heading straightaway for the outcasts’ camp.

  ‘What do you think, Conor?’ asked Fergal. ‘Is it a fight they’re after?’ Fergal stooped and retrieved his spear and shield, then turned to face the oncoming riders.

  ‘Sit down and try to stay pleasant,’ advised Conor. ‘We don’t want to give them an excuse to quarrel. All the same, keep your weapons close to hand.’

  ‘It is Médon,’ intoned Donal in an odd, low voice. ‘And Galart is with him.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ asked Fergal, still gazing into the hazy distance. ‘I cannot make out any—’